


luxury*

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Accidents, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Water Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23353639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: The faucet in the tub upstairs wouldn’t stop dripping, and Malcolm could hear every plink against the porcelain from his bed underneath. Maybe there was something to this bath thing he’d been missing.For Bad Things Happen Bingo Friends Pick Edition prompt Water Torture.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	luxury*

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The faucet in the tub upstairs wouldn’t stop dripping, and Malcolm could hear every plink against the porcelain from his bed underneath.

Drip.

Drip.

Two AM was too early to call the plumber, so he did the next most sensible thing: drew a bath. A luxury he didn’t often get because he didn’t allow himself to partake. Didn’t make the time to care for such a frivolous thing when he could bury himself in cases. Didn’t have the wherewithal to think to try to spend an hour relaxing when breathing was difficult. A luxury he didn’t _deserve_.

But he couldn’t sleep.

And the faucet kept drip — drip — dripping.

He cut the flow when it reached the top of the fill line, waving just below the spillover. He climbed in, his feet tentatively entering the near scalding temperature one small step after the other. He sunk into the drink and laid against the back of the tub, his body quickly overheating as it worked to acclimate. He could add more cold water, but he didn’t mind the burn and didn’t bother moving from his resting spot. He stuck his foot under the faucet, and _finally_ the dripping sound stopped.

He slouched and lowered his head until his chin was just above the surface and alternated sticking his toes and arms above and below when he got too hot. After a few minutes stewing, he was thoroughly cooked, his chest and fingers a bright pink. The steam made breathing easier, the temperature an all encompassing hug of warmth, and the lavender scent was calming.

Maybe there was something to this bath thing he’d been missing.

Visiting The Surgeon took everything out of him, wringing him out until there wasn’t an ounce of strength left. Why had he agreed to two visits every ten days? Would he be able to retain that schedule? Mr. David opened the door to The Surgeon’s grinning face as Malcolm entered, which may as well have been in stage makeup. Malcolm could almost see his halo against the red backdrop.

Two peas at a time. Two peas at a time. Two peas — he sat though dinner, listening to The Surgeon wax on about why scalpels were preferred over knives. “More precise. Truly _immaculate_ detail,” he elaborated, going back for two more peas.

“Come on, boy — aren’t you going to eat?” The Surgeon chided with glowing eyes, pointing at Malcolm’s plate.

Malcolm’s head snapped and he scrambled, but his chair was bolted to the floor and wouldn’t push back.

The Surgeon could reach him so easily, pull him down until he was drowning in the pitcher of water between them. “ _Please_ ,” Malcolm begged, squirming to be released.

Two peas.

The Surgeon was on the string, but he was the puppet. The Surgeon could pick through each word, look for the right lever to get him standing at attention, to get his head whipping back, gasping for more air, trying to pull in the next breath before he was plunged back down again.

Two peas.

The Surgeon’s arms were shorter in the cuffs. Did that make it harder to work the marionette? Did he need the arm span of a master conductor? If he couldn’t stretch, did that mean he was trapped in place with the finest lock money could buy? Did that mean Malcolm was safe in his space? Proved wrong, his head slipped below the water again.

Two peas.

The spork came at him — were they in cahoots? Did it mean The Surgeon could animate the whole room? Would Malcolm be forced to be a guest and dance around the cell? Would The Surgeon puppet Mr. David into unlocking the door, letting him wander free into the street? Where would he go first? His mother’s? His? A fountain of water went down his throat.

Two peas.

Malcolm grasped at the table, trying to keep his head above water, trying to stop The Surgeon’s assault, trying to get any leverage to float — float — float. But The Surgeon had everyone under his control. His arms flailed as he was held under.

Two peas.

Water streamed out from between his teeth, sputters and coughs expelled enough so he could _breathe_ , take another massive gulp of air, and —

Two peas.

The sting of water blurred the images. “ _My boy_ — my _beautiful_ boy.”

Two peas.

Glug — glug — thrash — shake. …glug…

Two peas.

In a _pod_.

Two arms thrust Malcolm’s head out of the water, spewing a mouthful and hacking up what he’d inhaled. His arms trembled holding himself above the ledge, his head hanging over the side of the tub. His shoulders shuddered as he tried to catch his breath, tried to do anything more than black out. His chest heaved against the porcelain as he struggled to find his bearings.

His nose burned, his throat whined at the painful scratch, his eyes teared as each breath became a little bit easier than the last. A little more inhaling, a little less dying. A little more air, a little less panic.

Two slippers lay on the ground along with his outer shell. Malcolm unceremoniously slid over the side of the tub and on top of them, water sloshing onto the tile. He curled in on himself, continuing to cough, no longer expelling anything else.

He brushed back his wet hair from his forehead and shivered on the icy floor. He half expected The Surgeon to be waiting for him at the door, convincing him death was approaching with a spork and two _fucking_ peas.

How many times had he dunked under the water? His vision waved and flickered as his breaths rattled in his chest. His shake remained persistent, tapping against the tile. Lavender was all that entered his nose on the air, but he was anything but calm. He wanted a hug, yet he was alone. _So_ alone.

He’d nearly _drowned_ himself.

No wonder he didn’t use the tub.

He raised the stopper and watched as the tepid water ran down the drain. Crawled his naked form to the edge of the sink and used the cabinets to pull himself up to standing. Padded back downstairs, vowing to call the plumber as soon as the clock hit seven. Wrapped himself in the fluffiest microfiber robe and lay across the top of the bed.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
